She was surprised to hear from him, and he forced himself to chat with her a few minutes, explaining that yes, he was busy, yes, he was fine, yes, he’d seen Leslie, yes, they had a lot in common, yes…
She was more surprised when he asked her for list of everyone who had attended the gala, and for every caterer, police officer and private security person who had worked it. He also asked for a list of anyone who had recently done work at Hastings House.
“I’m sure I gave all those lists to the police.” She paused, then said sadly, “It was an accident, Joe. You looked into it yourself. The file is closed.”
It’s been reopened, Joe thought. Aloud he said only, “Greta, you’re a dear, but I can’t let it go, not yet. Will you get the lists for me?”
“How could I refuse you?”
“Thanks. Can you messenger them over to Hastings House by this evening?”
She sighed. “Sure. If it will help you come to terms with what happened, go over it all you want.”
As he hung up, he had the strange sensation that he wasn’t alone. The feeling was so strong that he actually looked to his right, at the passenger seat. There was no one there. Of course not, you fool. You would have known if someone had jumped in the car.
But he looked in the rearview mirror, as well, feeling even more like a fool.
Suddenly he thought he heard a whisper. Something teasing in his ear, indistinct at first. It was the breeze, he told himself; he had the window rolled down. It was the sound of a radio on the street somewhere nearby. It was conversation coming at him from the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan.
Whatever it was, it seemed to form a name in his mind.
Leslie…
There was an urgency to the sound, which irritated him; common sense and logic were his bywords. Then again, ever since he had known Leslie, he had to admit that somehow what she saw was clearer, what she intuited was often real….
“Screw it,” he said aloud.
And then, despite his own plans, he headed to the library.
Leslie left the library with a roll of copies in her hands. She’d thought she would grab a taxi, but it was midday and the traffic was insane. Actually, she liked the subway, she thought as she headed for the nearest station. It was usually fast and rarely got hung up by traffic jams.
She hurried down the steps, finding her MetroCard as she went. The entry smelled only slightly of urine. There was an obviously handicapped man with a sign sitting by one wall, and she stopped to drop a dollar in his cap. Before she could reach the turnstile, she saw a skinny old woman with a skinny dog. That demanded another pause for a dollar.
Since she’d already opened her heart to the first two, she paused to give the twentysomething leaning against the yellow tiles and playing the flute a dollar, too.
As she dropped the bill into his flute case, she felt a sense of something again, a sense of being watched. This was the subway, for God’s sake, she told herself. Full of people. Anyone could be watching her.
She paused. There was something in her head, a niggling piece of knowledge, but she couldn’t quite get it to make sense. It nagged at her even more strongly as she stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the train platform. She was in the subway. Underground. There were miles and miles of subway tunnels. Maybe that was it. Over the years, subway workers had discovered any number of relics while digging new lines. And there were unused tunnels, too, so…
Great. The killer was probably burying his victims. Wow. Big break. But where?
Huge city. Huge underground.
She started. That strange feeling of being watched struck her again.
Sure, she was being watched. By the guy with the dull eyes in the corner. He wasn’t really seeing anything, though.
It was just a feeling, she told herself.
But it wasn’t that simple. It was…disturbing. She looked around. And saw a dozen people, none of whom seemed to be staring at her.
New Yorkers were busy people on the move.
Oh, Matt, I’m really becoming a total paranoid. If only…
If only you would speak to me….
Matt was dead.
He lived only in her dreams.
With a mental shake of irritation, she moved on, heading down to the train platform.
People walked fast in New York. She joined the throng, people-watching as she went. There were the tourists, carrying guidebooks and looking around with wide eyes. There were the businessmen and women, looking crisp in their dark suits. There were punks with ski caps and students reading textbooks, oblivious to the world around them, their iPods all the company they needed.